


To Grieve, Together

by seastheday



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, Incest, Multi, Other, in a "it's not incest if the dicks don't touch" way, no betas we die like men, tag is funny but the fic is pretty serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25853941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seastheday/pseuds/seastheday
Summary: She finds herself wondering how long it’s been, in the strict hierarchy and social rules of Ishgard, since either one of them has had someone hold them while they cried.They fall into this together, unexpected allies, to weather the unthinkable.
Relationships: Artoirel de Fortemps/Warrior of Light/Emmanellain de Fortemps
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: August Novel Pairing Challenge 2020





	To Grieve, Together

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Novel Pair Challenge 2020 at Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub.
> 
> Come join in the ridiculous enabling: https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic 
> 
> Just a bit of a warning, if you're really here looking specifically for incest as a kink, this is likely not the fic for you, but neither should you read it if it's a trigger or just super oogie for you. Just putting that out there.

Everything is a flurry of grief in the hours that follow. There’s so much to _do_ and everyone is looking to her to do it, and she has never _hated_ the mantle of hero like she does right now. But he wouldn’t want… wouldn’t want… 

No. She can’t think about that now. There’s another person to tell, another thing to clean, another set of stairs to climb down. She has Tataru bring her some fresh clothes to the Knights Most Heavenly, changes out of her bloodsoaked armor there in a back room. Someone offers to clean it for her and she nods. She should be the one to do it but it’s more important that she not bring his blood back to House Fortemps. She _won’t_. She smiles and smiles and smiles because he told her to, but they are each and every one tight, _fake_. It’s all she can manage right now and she hopes that it’s enough. She finds the words of condolences over and over again and by the time she’s finally back to the Fortemps manor she’s not sad anymore, just _numb_. 

She has a short bath, more for the hot water than anything else, dresses in her usual, warm house clothes. It all feels a million miles away, the house more cold than she’s used to, more silent, even though she knows that’s ridiculous. Haurchefant was barely even _here_ at the same time she was, only spent a handful of nights in the house since she’s arrived. But she still feels the lack, the space and distance and she finds herself unable to settle, turning to pacing along the halls instead.

It’s on one of these long, looping courses through the wing of the house her bedroom is on that she hears the crying, muffled, as though someone is trying to not be overheard. When she traces it back to the source, though, she finds Emmanellain’s door slightly ajar as though perhaps he subconsciously left it that way so he _would_ be overheard, and him sitting on the edge of his bed with a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the tears. 

It has all the look of a sudden onslaught, like he thought he was fine and then broke down and something about it doesn’t just tug at her heart so much as turn it inside out, and she’s pushing open the door without a second thought and crossing to him. 

He tries to stammer out some kind of apology, to pull himself together, but she shakes her head and sits down on the side of the bed, pulling him into her arms. There’s a moment where she can feel pride and propriety (both things she is certain he _does_ possess, if not in rather less quantity than his father would like) war over humanity but after a moment he collapses against her, and when she strokes her fingers through his hair he _sobs_ , shaking in her arms. She _wants_ to join him, she does, but she’s been holding back the tears so long she finds that now they seem stuck, her mind so calm and still she might as well be in a coffin, herself, glass, and the rest of the world at a distance.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when she looks up and sees Artoirel in the doorway, expression not blank so much as containing so much it looks nigh unreadable. It’s clear he doesn’t particularly think it’s appropriate to see Emmanellain crying on her in such a fashion and perhaps he’s about halfway to an admonishment. But there’s also something there that looks a lot like _jealousy_ , like maybe he, too, would like to cry and can’t and before she really thinks about it she lifts an arm and beckons him over.

She… doesn’t really expect him to take her up on the offer, not _really_. She knows he is more private, less given to showing his own emotions. But he slips inside, closing the door properly behind him, and sits next to her on her other side on the bed. He’s more awkward about it, stiffens just slightly when she shifts away from Emmanellain enough to wind an arm around him, too, to offer a shoulder and a soothing hand on his back. But after a moment, he too gives in to grief and sags against her.

She finds herself wondering how long it’s been, in the strict hierarchy and social rules of Ishgard, since either one of them has had someone hold them while they cried. Count Edmont is warm and kind in his own ways but while she can, perhaps, imagine him coddling a child, dressing skinned knees or consoling childhood miseries, she cannot picture him letting one of his grown sons cry on him. 

And it’s funny, isn’t it, how grief works? She can’t cry for the dead, everything’s still too bottled up, too raw, but she can cry for the _living_ and once the dam has broken, there’s nothing in the world that can stop it. She’s _sobbing_ with them, clinging to them as much as they are to her and this is what happens, when you hold too many lives in your hands and watch them slip through your fingers, one by one. It builds and builds and then there’s nowhere for it to go. 

It’s Emmanellain that sends them all down to the bed some long moments later and it’s not wholly appropriate, given that they’re all adults, but she doesn’t _feel_ particularly like an adult right now and she’s so, so _tired_ and none of them have to hold each other up like this. Far better to pull them with her up the bed a bit, turn this into something deliberate, a decision to rest here, to not even have to bother to even so much as _sit up_ anymore in their grief. They both seem to agree, because almost instantly all three of them settle into quieter, softer tears, more sniffles than sobbing. 

They’re all a mess, she thinks, and she drifts a bit, lets her thoughts turn sluggish, hands absently soothing through hair, not really paying attention to anything internal or external, her grief heavy in her chest and behind her eyes. The shift is glacially slow, so much so that in hindsight she doubts _any_ of them noticed it. Emmanellain ducks half behind her shoulder, winding an arm around her waist so that he can bury his head between her shoulderblades. She can feel the dampness of his tears through her night-shirt but it seems to help him to hide a bit, to work feebly towards composure. It leaves her hands free to bring Artoirel closer, tuck him into the opposite shoulder and center her soothing touches on him, his own arm resting above Emmanellain’s on her waist. It feels like _peace_ and she hasn’t been keeping track of how long it’s been since she’s _hugged_ someone, and she doesn’t think to work it out now (Gods, it would have been Haurchefant, wouldn’t it?) but her heart _aches_ to have it again.

Maybe they’ve all just gone a bit mad with grief. Maybe they feel the same, that this is something precious, special, _unique_. Whatever the reason, no one notices, no one minds, no one says anything, and when Artoirel finally raises his head out of her shoulder, their lips meet, soft and sweet, wet with tears, and neither one of them think to stop. 

He pushes closer instead and she’s never heard him speak of any lovers but this is not his first kiss, not with the way he tilts his head the perfect amount and deepens it. There’s an answering, hot mouth on the side of her neck and she gasps softly at the sensation, feels like her nerves are coming to life after being dead under a blanket of mourning. Artoirel takes the offered opportunity and slides his tongue against hers and she shudders between them, Emmanellain turning his first kiss into a more thorough exploration of her neck. 

None of them ask. None of them need to. Artoirel’s hand slips up under her shirt, slowly enough she could stop him but unhesitant and Emmanellain shifts his down instead. She’s got her hands tangled up in Artoirel’s hair, one knee sliding up between his, but her hips push backwards, Emmanellain warm against her entire back. She tips her head back and makes the softest, sweetest noise of pleasure when Emmanellain slides a finger almost delicately inside her.

They take her apart, sweet and slow, Emmanellain’s mouth on her shoulder, neck, the shell of her ear, Artoirel’s swallowing down the quiet, almost whimpering noises they both draw out of her. It’s so spontaneous that there’s nothing to do but _react_ , arching into Artoirel’s hand when he cups one of her breasts and runs a thumb over her nipple under her clothes and they’re not practiced enough at this to make her think they’ve done it before, but her reactions tell the timing of what Emmanellain is doing to her, and Artoirel matches his pace.

If either of them reach release in the slow, lazy friction against her thigh or her ass, they don’t highlight it. On the other hand, caught between the two of them, awash in sensation, she’s an easy mark and she shudders apart bare minutes later.

“Feeling better?” Artoirel asks, low, while she struggles to remember how to focus her eyes. All she can do is nod for the moment, feeling the tension of arousal bleeding away to _exhaustion_.

“You?” she manages and she’s favored with a rare smile from Artoirel, a chaste kiss to her temple. 

“Yes, thank you” She’s not sure whether it’s his doing or if Emmanellain’s growing a little impatient, but hands are on her, shifting the direction she’s facing, and she gets her first full kiss from Emmanellain a moment later, surprisingly gentle. She can feel Artoirel start to shift and she puts her hand back, landing on his hip, 

“Stay,” she murmurs, “both of you…” she knows it’s probably wrong to ask. They might be uncomfortable with it now that the moment has passed and she wants to respect that, them. She can’t deny, however, that she also wants them both _close_ still, feels the settling of her soul as a tenuous, delicate thing. It seems for a moment like Artoirel is going to refuse, she can feel the tension in him, but then he settles warm against her back, sliding an arm around her. That decided, she turns her attention to Emmanellain, who gives her a small smile and a nod and then snuggles straight into her breasts without a hint of shame in the world and she can’t help but huff a quiet laugh at him. She favors him with the hair petting she’d been lavishing on Artoirel before this all had started and he sighs happily, perfectly content, it seems, to drift off to sleep. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they have to get up and bury their brother. Tomorrow, waking up here, unable to escape this having happened, there is a chance this is only going to add to their woes, not relieve them. But right here? Right now? There is _peace_.

For the first time in a long while, she sleeps deep and does not dream.


End file.
